On Saturday, I stood in line for 7 hours, 19 minutes, 55 seconds. Why?
The straight answer: to get Maggie Rogers tickets for Madison Square Garden for October. Rogers has been selling tickets to her live shows at box offices to circumvent scalpers and ticket fees before they go on sale to the larger public via Ticketmaster.
I like Maggie Rogers well enough, obviously, but I’m no superfan; I did not line up at 7am alongside the folks to get special merch or meet Maggie herself, who made some early appearances. But I’d been thinking earlier that week that I’d like to see her1 when she next toured, and the very next day she announced this tour in support of her new album, and my older teen mentioned the presale to me and we thought, what else are we doing on Saturday?
Nothing else, apparently.
We were asked, probably a dozen times over the course of the hours, what we were in line for—nothing invokes as much FOMO or smugness in a New Yorker than a multi-block line, imagining (and judging) what other people think is worth it—and though, by about the 8th ask we were contemplating answering with things such as “Michael Jackson” “Queen cover band” or “get stuffed”2 we gave the answer to what was mostly older people (60+) who either wrinkled their brows in confusion or pretended to know who Maggie Rogers was with a smile and a nod. I suspect many of them are New Yorker readers and will soon know. When a friend of a friend who I was in line with came by to say hi at the five and a half hour mark, he said to the group of us, innocently, genuinely, “Can’t you buy them online?” and I lost it there on East 15th street, nearly crying I was laughing so hard. Because yes, we could, of course we could; there are pre-sales I qualify for next week, and though the show might sell out, and Ticketmaster fees are a crime (for the 4 of us in my family, $120 or so, aka another ticket or two), I am pretty certain we could have bought them online without much hassle.
But I’d been standing there forever already—sunk costs are real! and whether my Saturday, those hours, some of which featured rain and wind, were worth saving that money was a question I’d decided to no longer ask. It was obviously absurd, as both a method to buy tickets and a way to spend a Saturday. In those seven plus hours we circled one city block.
But go ahead, ask me why.
Here are some of my answers:
Because I got to spend that time with my 15 year old, and my friend’s boyfriend who I’d never met but have been wanting to, and that was what we call quality time, our ages ranging from 15 to 45, a little constellation of life experiences between us. We talked about our younger selves and our current selves, we tried to rank concerts we’d been to, but mostly reminscied about them (being the oldest, I had more of these, but some memorable shows, reflective of my 90s adolescence: Ani Difranco in various venues, Billy Idol’s set at the Bridge School Benefit in early 2000s Northern California, Tracy Chapman at the Beacon Theater; drop yours in the comments, maybe?). There was a great sandwich drop and other comedy.
Because I started the remaining 150 or so of us in a string of boos when the venue guy said they were shutting the box office. My friend’s boyfriend turned to me and said “You did that,” as if I’d lifted a car off of a family of 5. But look, after, they kept the box office open till all of us had tickets.
Because after all that time, though I’d meant to get seats closer to the stage, instead I’m sitting a bit further up in the arena with the four women young enough to technically be my daughters, whose names I barely knew by the time the hours were up but who we’d banded forces with in line, buoyed dashed hopes, offered back up chargers and snacks and folding chairs and theories on how the line was moving. The combination of fiction writer and New Yorker in me likes nothing more than making friends with strangers. Funnily enough, we did not get seats near the friend I came with. As she said after, we all kind of blacked out by the time we got to the box office.
Because it was fun, and had they closed the box office before we made it, the day would not have felt wasted.
Because I did.
There is no reason—by definition, a thing that makes sense—for any of it: not standing in line to save $120 or having kids or pets or writing for what is, hilariously, referred to “as a living.” What are we doing all this calculating, sense-making for? This week when I was at my desk I felt good in the mess of my work and on that line on Saturday though my legs did start to hurt, I felt good in the mess of that line, the actual absurdity of it. I laughed a lot. I experienced low grade anxiety. Tested my patience. I have given birth to a child in less time than I stood in that line. I love my kid, but one of those was a better time.
For those of you who have been here a while it won’t surprise you to hear me say that the making of the thing is as important as the thing itself; it certainly lasts longer! Yes, I’m eager to finish my next draft, to publish this book, but I also would not do it if I did not enjoy the ride of it, the longest line of my life, which I cannot explain to you in any way that makes sense. At some point, you have to stop asking yourself why, stop looking at outcomes as the purpose.
In this light, I loved this Sara Bareilles post—the making is the magic, and yes, fuck 'em! and this part of the aforementioned Maggie Rogers profile:
The very next day, I bought tickets to see Waxahatchee at the Beacon later this summer. Online. It took me about 5 minutes. It was a thrill.
Talk Soon,
Danielle
PS: When I told Katie, my line friend, that I was writing about our experience, she said : “Are you gonna say “you stood in line for 7.5 hours, you can write for 30 minutes”? Because that’s my new mantra”—a thing I said I wanted to borrow from her but which she pointed out I said to her when she was hedging about getting to her writing desk earlier this week and which I now pass along to you if you’re doing the same.
We’ve been taking my teens to see shows the past few years—Haim, Taylor Swift (my husband bought those tickets, precisely the ones we wanted, at 3,000 ft, on airplane wifi in 22 minutes; I’m both sorry to those of you who got screwed by the online queues and also, luck is luck, and I certainly don’t control it), — and we all love it.
This phrase came up during conversation about as a curse replacements from my friend Katie, whose brother favored this in middle school. Can you imagine saying this with a straight face? You’d have to be a 13 year old boy.
I do really like the new Maggie Rogers album--and I also loved that profile! How sweet you are doing this w/ and for your kids. xoxo